Such Pretty Hair
by Kianang
Summary: Nuriko fights the good fight with his hair.


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Disclaimer: Now tell me again, how can I possibly own FY if I barely have enough money to my name to buy a pack of gum? And I don't mean those expensive makes-your-breath-happy-and-kissable ones, I mean cheap-ass Juicy Fruit. And that takes me back to my first point, I don't own FY... and no, owning a pack of Juicy Fruit does not give me ownership of Nuriko, sadly enough, despite him himself being a... er... juicy fruit. Ok, I'll stop.

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Author's Notes: My real notes are at the end. This is my first long (longer than a poem) fanfic in ages, and one of my first FY fics (despite being a fan for, uhh, four or five years). It feels scattered and just plain wrong. Please comment so I know how to improve myself. Um, be kind. -_-; My style needs work and my characterization needs even more work. I have no idea how IC this is, as it is one of my first FY fics. So, yes.

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Such Pretty Hair

It's no wonder sailors are so ugly.

Sure, their bodies are chiseled. But they're hardly what you would call beautiful. Or even pretty. Or even, hell, halfway decent looking. Something about the wind, rain, sun, and lack of hygiene does that to them.

But it probably has something to do with the fact that mirrors just _do not_ stay still on ships, as Nuriko was slowly learning with the small wooden mirror he had tacked up to preen to. His first day he had no use for it; he simply braided his hair back and was gone, eager to enjoy and absorb the sea-side air. Sure, the mirror was sufficient to glance in and see how badly the wind had treated his hair. But trying to brush his hair out in front of it, to repair the wind-wrought damage, now that was a different story entirely.

Nuriko would try to assess the damage and the mirror would tilt. He would try to brush through some rough spots and the ship would sway, sending him into a wall. The wall would, naturally, send him back with a friendly parting gift - his brush thoroughly tangled in his hair.

But brushing was the least of Nuriko's worries at the moment. Right now he was trying to dress his hair somewhat respectably. Emphasis on the _trying_.

Nuriko would hold his hair up, pin ready, and the waves would send him stumbling to the side. Normally he could balance far better than this, but something about trying to pin his hair up made balancing absolutely impossible. Even when he would maintain his balance his pin would slip, scratching his scalp, slipping from his fingers, or nearly poking him in the eye.

He didn't even know why he bothered, to be quite honest. He looked just fine with a braid, and an icicle had a better chance against hell than any of his elaborate hair styles would have against the elements.

Still, it was almost soothing. Something about seeing Kourin's pretty little face peeking out at him from the mirror was comforting. Say, "Hello, how's the afterlife treating you?" Maybe make some gossip about what Miaka and Tamahome were doing lately.

He used to do that sometimes back at the palace. It, however, did not earn him any respect from his maids, who wrote him off as either excessively vain or unspeakably insane. Nuriko didn't exactly blame them for it, after all, if his mistress was cooing "My, Kourin, what lovely hair you have," whilst brushing out her long purple locks, why, he'd likely reach one of the two conclusions as well, especially when coupled with his various other neurotic tendencies.

It wasn't as though he was being vain, or even egocentric. As a child Kourin had absolutely gorgeous hair, far superior to his own. As Ryuuen he was far more conscientious than most boys, but that wasn't saying much - his hair was knotted, frayed, and riddled with split ends. Kourin, on the other hand, took the utmost care, brushing and preening to perfection. Every day Kourin would go through the ritual of brushing her hair one hundred times, even when she had trouble counting, in which case it took a very long time.

Naturally, Ryuuen had no patience for this. But no amount of whining or tapping of feet would move Kourin from her daily ritual. He would stand in her door, eager to play, but she would placidly stoke her violet locks... one, two, three... If Ryuuen became too persistent she would scold him for making her lose count and start again at one.

That was how things played out that day, naturally. It all followed the same pattern.

"Ne.... Kourin... how much longer?"

"Let me finish... 'Kaa-san said it'll make my hair real pretty. So I'm staying here to get pretty." Kourin stuck her tongue out at her disgruntled brother through the mirror.

Ryuuen glowered. "Kouriiin... your hair is good enough..."

"You don't want me to be an ugly hag! Then you'll have to beat people up for me _and_ Aniki!"

"You're already a hag!" He giggled and made a silly face at her, before ducking out the door and running down the hall.

"Nii-san! Hidoi!" She stood and pulled her brush roughly from her hair, ready to chase him, when she stopped... eighty... Kourin blew a raspberry at the door and sat back down, prim and proper, and began to brush again.

A few seconds later Ryuuen stuck his head inside the door with a mischievous smile on his face, "Neeee, Kourin... I have enough ryo for two sio pao... and siiiince you aren't coming, I'll just have to eat them both myself!"

Kourin, being the little glutton that she was, ran after her Nii-san, nearly tripping over her stool in the process.

That made Nuriko chuckle slightly. So much like Miaka. A glutton, a klutz... Naive and sweet, a bit of a spaz and a drama queen, but endearing in her own little way.

It was that damned klutziness that did the deed, after all. Ryuuen had slowed to a walk to allow his sister to catch up. She was behind him, yelling for him to wait. He crossed the road and turned to wait for her to catch him, and she stumbled slightly and then the cart came.

It bothered him, how he could think of this so easily now. Nightmares plagued him still, but nothing nearly as oppressing as before. Before he would be smothered and gagged by Kourin's swirling, crimson blood... it would spill forth from her broken body and flood around him, a continuous deluge swirling around his ankles, then waist, then wrists, then neck, before it would flood his nostrils and fill his mouth and seep angrily into his lungs.

Recently his dreams were much calmer... the crash, reliving the moments, and petting Kourin's hair. Such pretty hair, the blood will ruin it. That was what he did when she died. He cradled her in his arms and stoked her hair, littered with patches of blood and tiny bone fragments. She used to have such pretty hair. Red wasn't her color, it made her look pale... so deathly pale.

He still woke up in a cold sweat, but he did not feel the need to stumble pitifully outside to dry heave. He simply awoke. The entire dream consisted of petting her hair, petting her pretty pretty hair... He didn't sob at first, he just stroked her hair, tried to wipe the blood off with his tunic, caressed her cheek softly, numb, silent, hoping she would wake up. That was the extent of it.

And so Nuriko smiled weakly and brushed his hair idly, having given up on doing it up with combs.

Up on deck he could hear Miaka stumbling around and giggling, apparently dragging poor Tamahome around by the arm. "Ne, ne, Tamahome! Look! *CRASH* Dolphins! Sugoi!"

Nuriko chuckled and began to pack away his hair pins. She was so much like Kourin. Everything was "sugoi" to Kourin; she was so easily entranced by wonder. At festivals she would flit from attraction to attraction, transfixed by wonder for but a moment before vanishing to something new and shinier.

He paused when he reached the two delicate silvery hair combs he was about to pack away in a embossed metal case. They had been Kourin's favorites, and her selective attention had been how she found them. They were both being dragged through a crowded market by 'Kaa-san (along with a free Rokou, who grinned triumphantly at his status of eldest, and thus, freest) when she had glimpsed the lovely combs set on a soft pillow of silk and stopped to stare at them, open mouthed. 'Kaa-san tried to drag her along, very much in a hurry, but Kourin stalled and gaped at the matching pair, wonder written upon her face. They were twin hair combs with a graceful lily and butterfly pair reaching out from the top hypnotically, twinkling and glittering in the morning sun. Kourin begged and pleaded as she was drawn away, but to no avail, until they were presented to her a week later as a gift. 'Kaa-san told her they would be her first jewelry as a woman, and to take excellent care of them. She also received a tiny jade pendant for luck, but that was naturally overlooked in favor of the pretty new combs. Kourin sat by her mirror fussing and playing with her hair for hours, and when she grew tired of that she captured Ryuuen and made him model them for her. He looked so much like her, after all, so of course if she put them in his hair she'd have a much better idea of how they looked! And besides, Rokou would have a hissy fit if he had to model for her. Didn't he understand that a _real man_ didn't worry about his masculinity, and a _real man_ didn't have his little brother defend him in fights?

He smiled and closed the case for the combs with a soft click. Miaka was so much like Kourin... it was almost comforting. Sighing, he absently braided his hair. She was like a sister to him. A dear, dear little sister.

Oddly enough, he found the comb case still in his hand when he emerged on deck. He sighed and shook his head, almost turning to put them away, but thought otherwise when he saw Miaka leaning on the rail, caught in a daydream (Tama-chan must have taken leave to spend time with his other love, namely okane). He nearly called out to her, but then a mischievous expression crept upon his face... why do things the easy way? It was so boring, and Miaka was such a spaz...

So he slipped the combs into his pocket and tiptoed up behind Miaka, pulling his lower lids away from his eyes and shouting in her ear, "GAAAAAAAH!"

Miaka screeched and spun around, which Nuriko expected, but she also executed a killer uppercut, which Nuriko did not expect (though he very well should have). This evolved into Nuriko sitting dazedly on the deck behind her, rubbing ruefully on his bruised jaw. Miaka laughed nervously, fiddling with the loose hairs at the nape of her neck, "Nuriko, I didn't see you there! Heh... heh!"

"Yes, well, that was the point!"

"Well, don't sneak up on me!"

"You're no fun..." He whined, pouting.

Miaka made a face at him and turned back to the sea. She really is alot like Kourin...

Nuriko stood up and walked over to her, leaning on the rail next to her. "You know, Miaka..."

"Hm?"

He pulled the combs out of his pocket. "I think it would be nice for you to have these," he murmured, taking her hand and gently wrapping it around the case. He released her hand and gently stoked the strands of hair around her ears that always seemed to escape her odangos, sadness deep in his eyes. "After all," he smiled, "you have such pretty hair..."

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Revenge of the Author's Notes: No, I don't know what I was smoking. And I don't even want to think about what this implies about Nuriko's later love of Miaka, since then it may be a bit, um, incestual, depending on how you read it. Written between, umm, 3 and 6 in the morning. It's about 5:47 now. Meep. It was supposed to be my Ball last night, but, you know what? I spent half my Prom last year in tears because of a stupid boy, I'd rather not waste my energy this time around. Instead I saw the Matrix, ate Cajun, wandered around Old Sac at night, read fanfics, and wrote. Not bad for a night that should have contained drama, drugs, and date-rape. I don't need no teenaged drama. I was about to finish watching Eikoden, then I decided that it'd defeat the purpose, what with my intent of _avoiding_ teenaged drama tonight.

Oh, and sio pao are like nikuman, I'm assuming, since I haven't had nikuman since I was two years old. I was contemplating using mooncakes, but sio pao are a portable lunch... which means lots and lots of fuel as needed if you're a kid.


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